


In Bobby Singer's guestroom, Cthulhu lies dreaming

by ladyofthesilent



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Fix-It, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-08
Updated: 2012-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-29 05:31:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyofthesilent/pseuds/ladyofthesilent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Bobby Singer's guestroom, Cthulhu lies dreaming. Dean has a hard time figuring out where to go from there. Spoilers up to 7x02 (but goes AU afterwards)</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Bobby Singer's guestroom, Cthulhu lies dreaming

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Not mine. I am not exactly sure who owns the boys, might be Warner, CW, Kripke Enterprises ... but not me. Unfortunately. I wouldn't kill them that often ...
> 
> Beta: lj-users skylar_matthews and dreamscapemusic
> 
> Written for lj-user trueromances, because she needed some angel-hugging.

“Fuck!”  
   
The door of the Impala slammed shut with a thunderous bang that had even Sam wincing, despite his distinct lack of interest in anything directly or indirectly related to their vehicle. _She_ was Dean’s love though, and if Dean was treating her like that, something was definitely going down.  
   
Not that Sam couldn’t have guessed as much. Dean had been on his last legs for weeks now, ever since they’d escaped Jimmy Novak’s new lodger. Truth be told, Sam had his fair share of emotional baggage himself these days, with Hell being his ever-faithful companion. Seeing as there were days when he could barely tell himself what was real, it didn’t help much that his brother’s drinking habits had taken on an increasingly alarming form. As had his reluctance to talk about anything only remotely touching the fate of a certain angel.  
   
For Dean, Castiel was dead and gone; hardly more than a fading photograph kept in a gigantic chest underneath a heap of emotional rubble of all shapes and colors. That was only the official version, of course. Sam, for his part, suspected that Dean’s memories of Castiel were haunting him like Sam himself was haunted by Lucifer. Or, and he had to admit the thought was more than a little disturbing, like he’d used to by haunted by Jess.  
   
“Let’s hope Bobby’s kept those stupid dogs in the kennel today. Otherwise, we’ll have Chinese for dinner.”  
   
Dean’s hand traveled to the gun he’d started keeping at his belt and Sam didn’t doubt he actually meant it. Aiming at dogs was probably among the more harmless stunts Dean was capable of pulling off when somebody messed with his customarily pissed state.  
   
“Can’t hear them,” Sam observed in defense of their friend’s watchful pets. “I guess you awed them with the stare of death, right through the windshield.”  
   
His attempt at humor failed miserably. Dean glared at him and for a split-second, Sam thought he heard him gnash his teeth. He turned away, pretending to observe their surroundings. _Darkening skies over northwestern salvage yard_ , his brain noted. Not that it mattered, of course. _Blue skies over white Caribbean beaches_ would only have resulted in yet another of his brother’s infamous outbursts, accusing God of mocking him by choosing the wrong setting for his epically fucked up life.  
   
“We shouldn’t have left Garrison just now,” Dean grumbled while they walked up to the front door. “Whatever you keep saying, something was going on in that lake.”  
   
“Dean, it was just a Mannegishi, an ordinary water spirit. No big sea monster.”  
   
Sam paused, then added quietly, “no Leviathan.”  
   
They’d already reached the porch when he turned and rested a reassuring hand on his brother’s shoulder. Dean shook him off.  
   
“Damn it, Sammy! You don’t know what this fucking Leviathan does or doesn’t do. Or what kind of bathtub he prefers to let his rubber ducks swim in.”  
   
“And neither do you.”  
   
Dean’s stare would probably have killed a considerable number of lesser monsters, but he didn’t snap back. Sam took it as unspoken permission to carry on.  
   
“Maybe Bobby has new information for us. He promised to consult some of his hunter-friends on the issue. And besides, even if he hasn’t, he wouldn’t have asked us to come all the way from Lake Sakakawea unless there was something really important he needed to tell us.”  
   
If he was honest with himself, Sam was worried. When Bobby had called them the day before he’d sounded slightly shaken, as if he’d learned some uncomfortable truth he couldn’t possibly bear alone. He hadn’t provided them with any substantial information though, apart from the fact he needed to see them in Sioux Falls as soon as humanly possible.  
   
If asked, Sam would have guessed it was the end of the world again. But nobody cared to ask Sam these days, so he only said what he thought his brother needed to hear.  
   
“Yeah, whatever,” Dean finally gave in, resigned. “I give you two one evening to huddle together over some dusty tomes written in Ancient Egyptian or any other stupid language neither of you can actually read. But after that, we’re back on the road.”  
   
When Sam shot him an irritated glance, he screwed up his eyes and gestured dismissively.  
   
 “Well, _I’ll_ be back on the road. If you decide you prefer waiting for the Cthulhu apocalypse in a raddled armchair, that’s totally fine with me.”    
   
Sam opened his mouth to counter with some clever reply he’d yet to come up with when suddenly, the door flew open. Bobby appeared in the door frame, looking as stern and bad-tempered as ever. Only this time, Sam got the impression he looked less grumpy than worn out and tired. He shot them the kind of glare pre-school teachers probably used on naughty children. Then he slowly lowered the rifle he’d been pointing straight at Dean’s forehead for mere effect and addressed them with his usual growl.  
   
“Idjits! Stop the cat-fighting in front of my door and come in.”  
   
The brothers looked at each other, taken aback by the fact that despite the occasion, Bobby had toned down his voice to a mere whisper.  
   
As soon as they’d stepped into the house, things got from weird to outright bizarre. First, Bobby made a big show of closing the door without making any sound. Then, with another shushing sound, he gestured towards their boot-clad feet.  
   
“Take them off,” he whispered. “You’ll wake my patient!”  
   
***  
   
“Are you nuts?”  
   
Truth be told, Bobby had expected a less than enthusiastic response to the course of action he’d taken lately. He’d, however, not expected to find himself slammed against the fading tapestry of the first-floor corridor, trapped by the body of a man who was wearing two different-colored socks. One of which, the grey one, even had a conspicuous hole right atop the big toe. It was a hideous sight, but then, it wasn’t Bobby’s job to lecture John Winchester’s boys on proper footwear. At least not as long as there were more pressing matters they needed lecturing on.  
   
“Dean Winchester, if you don’t let _the hell_ go of me, I’ll –“  
   
He then decided to skip the warning-part and kicked against the younger man’s shin as hard as he could. Dean, unprepared, howled and took his hands off Bobby as if burned.  
   
“You try that again and the next trip goes up north,” he said, pleased with himself.  
   
Dean bent down to rub his leg, shooting him a disdainful glance. Bobby ignored him and turned to Sam instead. The younger Winchester was still standing in the open guestroom door, staring at the sleeping figure.  
   
“In Bobby Singer’s guestroom, Cthulhu lies dreaming, ” he declared quietly. Despite his lamentable condition, he clearly couldn’t help but grab the opportunity to show off his indubitably vast knowledge of Lovecraftian lore.  
   
Bobby found himself smiling. Almost.  
   
“Well, truth be told, I very much doubt that there’s Cthulhu sleeping in my guestroom. Or any other supernatural being, for that matter.”

                                          


                                                      
“What do you mean?”  
   
There was the tiniest trace of pain in Dean’s voice, but Bobby felt he deserved it.  
   
“Well, all tests I naturally applied put aside,” he paused to shoot Dean a tale-telling glance. “He sleeps. _AND_ he snores.”  
   
Dean’s expression remained impervious, though Bobby thought he saw a twitch in his right eyebrow. Well, he hadn’t shot his bolt, yet.  
   
“Then there’s the fact I had to drag him to the bathroom. And don’t you dare go teasing me ‘bout that one!”  
   
At this point, Bobby realized that Sam hadn’t been exaggerating when they’d talked on the phone the day before: Dean was far from the sarcastic bastard they’d all grown to love over the years. If in shape, Dean would have already started mocking him. Hell, he’d probably have woken the sleeping figure to have a go at them both while Sam stood there, blushing like a school girl on prom-night. As things went, however, Dean was the one standing there, scratching his scalp as if attempting to sort his thoughts manually.  
   
“So what you’re saying is,” he finally croaked out, carefully choosing his words, “that this … this _thing_ in there is – a man?”  
   
Bobby nodded.  
   
“As human as you get them.”  
   
When he saw Dean taking a hesitant step towards the bedroom, he felt his confidence rise.  
   
“And by the way, I believe _his_ name is still Castiel.”  
   
The old floorboards creaked underneath Dean’s carefully measured steps. Sam instinctively retreated from his observation post, leaving his brother to hold on to the doorframe. Bobby thought he looked as if he had trouble staying upright. But then, maybe he just needed to keep himself from turning away again, unable to believe what his eyes told him to be unmistakably true.   
   
“Cas.“  
   
They could barely hear him say it, his voice reduced to a breathy whisper. It was certainly not enough to wake the sleeping angel – Bobby smirked at the ridiculously poetic ring of it – but it still held the underlying promise of atonement.  
   
“How can you be sure it’s Castiel, not Jimmy?” Sam asked, diverting his attention from Dean’s internal struggle.  
   
“Well, he wasn’t mute when he turned up yesterday, you know.”  
   
Bobby absent-mindedly scratched his beard, remembering the former angel’s incoherent ramblings. He’d found him draped across the porch, sans trench coat, but soaking wet and bruised. In retrospect, Castiel had been lucky the dogs had contented themselves with a cacophony of barks and growls, not to mention Bobby’s own rather spontaneous change of strategy. Nine times out of ten, he’d just gone with the golden rule: Shoot and save the questions for a later date. As far as he was concerned, only the Winchester brothers deserved a moment of consideration, mostly due to their unfortunate habit of dropping in and out of humanity.  
   
And because they were the closest thing to family he still got.  
   
He hadn’t realized anything had changed about that until he’d looked down at the shivering figure on his porch. This was Cas, the nerdy blessing heaven had thought fit to bestow upon them, and he found he could not pull the trigger. So he’d skipped the shooting part and performed the usual tests. Granted, he didn’t know much about killing, and even less about identifying Leviathans, so he’d taken Castiel to the panic room for some more testing until it occurred to him that the guy would probably die from hypothermia if he didn’t do something about it.  
   
And so Castiel had ended up in a bathtub and subsequently underneath a pile of blankets in Bobby Singer’s guestroom.  
   
He’d been babbling incessantly, except for the times when he’d appeared to be fading in and out of consciousness. Most of what he’d said had centered around Dean, and though Bobby suspected Sam already knew the two had shitloads of stuff going on between them, he felt this wasn’t something to share openly.  
   
“Quite frankly, I didn’t think the feathery bastard would make it when I called you,” he stated matter-of-factly. “I am not sure what happened to him, but sharing your meat suit with a monster probably isn't a very pleasant experience.”  
   
His gaze traveled to Dean who still stood motionless. Bobby watched him intently, knowing that his feigned indifference only served to hide the tension clearly visible in his tightly drawn shoulders.  
   
“Is he okay now?” Dean’s voice was blank.  
   
“I believe he’s alright, just trying to catch up on all the sleep he’s never had. Might take another millennium and then some.”  
   
It had been meant as a joke, but no one laughed. For a moment, the three of them stood in silence, hanging on to whatever thoughts were running through their minds. Only Sam seemed unable to be still, fingers tapping a fractured rhythm against the wall.  
   
“But if Cas is here and well,” he said thoughtfully, ”what happened to the Leviathan? Where is it? Why did it leave him?”  
   
“I don’t know for sure,” Bobby admitted.  
   
Castiel had been in no shape to tell his story. Of course, this didn’t mean the facts were not partly speaking for themselves.  
   
“But I have a theory. Seeing that the Leviathan is a very old and powerful being, it probably has a hard time surviving inside a human vessel.”  
   
They’d seen it themselves, after all. Jimmy’s body had been affected almost immediately by the Leviathan’s presence. Human bodies could host angels and demons, but these ancient creatures were a wholly different story.  
   
“I always suspected Castiel was in there all the time, despite what the Leviathan was trying to make us believe.”  
   
More than anything else, these words were directed at Dean.  
   
The elder Winchester pretended not to hear him.  
   
“It needed Castiel. It needed his grace to shield itself from the vessel’s mortality. When he was gone, it couldn’t stay in there without burning the vessel and killing itself in the process.”  
   
“So it is dead?”  
   
“I’m not sure.”  
   
It was a tempting assumption, for sure, but Bobby couldn’t shake off the disquieting feeling it was not over yet.  
   
“The vessel – well, I guess we’re safe to call it Castiel’s body now – is intact, after all.”  
   
Sam wrinkled his impressive forehead.  
   
“But how could his grace suddenly disappear?”  
   
“I have no theory on that one, I’m afraid. Maybe we have a yet unknown ally.”  
   
“Bullshit!” Bobby was surprised to hear Dean’s voice speaking up.  
   
Suddenly, Dean’s body moved into gear. Without as much as a second thought, he strode into the dimly lit bedroom and grabbed Castiel’s shoulder, shoving his sleeping figure deeper into the mattress.  
   
“Cas, you dumb son of a bitch,“ he hissed, his voice lowered to a dangerous growl. “You did this, didn’t you?“  
   
Bobby had been wondering all along whether Castiel was actually sleeping or rather unconscious. The moment he opened his eyes was a relief, though only a short lived one. As soon as he spotted Dean, his eyes went wide and Bobby actually prayed he wouldn’t lose it yet again. One evening with a crying, suicidal Castiel was quite enough, _thank you very much_.   
   
“Dean.”  
   
His voice was the same raspy baritone that had become his trademark over time. Only, when he addressed Dean, it sounded a little different, as if he couldn’t quite decide whether a human voice was actually the adequate instrument to express the earth-shattering totality he associated with so simple a name.  
   
“Yeah, it’s me,” Dean gave back harshly. “And you’re Castiel, an angel of the Lord. Ex-angel. Whatever. I get it. You can shove those heavenly formalities up your ass! I want to know why you did it!”  
   
Unconcerned about Castiel’s fragile state, he twisted his fingers into the collar of the weakened man’s t-shirt and pulled it tight around his throat.  
   
“Dean! Stop it! Don’t you –” Sam yelled, shocked by his brother’s brutal treatment of their one-time friend.  
   
Alarmed, Bobby prepared himself to drag Dean away from the bed when Castiel spoke up, his voice quiet but steady.  
   
“It was the only way. I swear, I wanted to redeem myself. Dean, I wanted to make it up to you.”  
   
Castiel’s voice performed an exasperated crescendo, but faltered when his gaze came to rest upon Dean’s emotionless face.  
   
“But I failed. Yet again.“  
   
After that fateful afternoon in the lab and yesterday’s drama, Bobby could tell he was close to sobbing again. Clearly, God had created his angels to kick ass, not to deal with human emotions. Ever since Castiel’s grace had been affected by his increasing draw towards humanity, he’d become susceptible to all kinds of conflicting feelings. Now that his grace was gone, he was like an albino abandoned in the desert: There was no filter and everything hurt.  
   
In defiance of Dean’s icy glare, Bobby stepped up and placed a reassuring hand on Castiel’s forearm.  
   
“What did you do, Cas?” he asked softly, already dreading the answer.  
   
The occasions on which Bobby allowed himself to give in to parental notions towards the boys were few and far between. They usually involved someone dying or rising from the dead, and they never played out in public. He wasn’t quite sure why he thought a being older than life itself actually needed his support and comfort, but Castiel seemed to appreciate the gesture. He took a shaky breath and set out to resume his story, resolutely turning his face away from Dean and focusing on Bobby instead.  
   
“I figured that if I ripped away my grace, the Leviathan would burn out this body.”  
   
It was a simple statement, nothing overtly dramatic or dreadful. Bobby actually needed to blink twice to realize Castiel was indeed talking about his decision to cut off a vital part of himself. Come to think of it, the very part that made him an angelic being. Ripping out his grace not merely meant severing his ties to the heavenly plane. It was tantamount to falling.  
   
Dean’s hand tightened around Castiel’s collar, but it was Sam who first gave in to the straining tension.  
   
“So you –”  
   
There was no need to finish the question.  
   
“Yes, Sam. I always knew there was a way, so I took all of my remaining strength and just –,” Castiel swallowed audibly, “did it. Unfortunately, the Leviathan sensed what I was planning.”  
   
He winced as if in pain, probably overcome by the memory of mutilating himself.  
   
“Still, it couldn’t stop me. Only leave before it tore us both down. And so it did.“  
   
For a long moment, nobody said a word. Dean absent-mindedly let go of Castiel and sat down on the edge of the bed, burying his face in his hands.  
   
When the angel had told them in the lab he’d make it up to them, he hadn’t been lying. In fact, his sacrifice entailed much more than just redemption. If everything had gone according to plan, Castiel would have died, dragging the Leviathan with him. His survival was a miracle, albeit not an untainted one.  
   
"So it’s still somewhere out there?“ Bobby asked deliberately, still resting his hand on Castiel’s forearm.  
   
"I regret to say it probably is. Though not as powerful as it used to be.” He sighed, then his voice faltered. “Not as long as it doesn’t find another host.“  
   
Castiel’s expression became weary, and the next moment, his eyes fell shut.  
   
“Well, that buys us some time to find the right blaster for the ultimate monster slaying experience, I guess, “Bobby mumbled, mostly to himself and because he just needed to _say_ something.  
   
Castiel didn’t respond. Bobby couldn’t quite tell if he’d actually gotten back to sleep or was just pretending. Either way, he’d made it clear enough he wanted to be left alone.  
   
“We should let him sleep,” Bobby said softly.  
   
With a last, almost tender glance, he took his hand off Castiel and heaved himself into an upright position. For a moment, he thought he could actually _hear_ his bones shifting into place, reminding him that another sleepless night spend on full-time angel care was not in the cards for him.  
   
Dean acted as if he’d only been waiting for the command. He jumped to his feet and rushed past the door without so much as a second glance. Sam looked confused, but followed him quickly enough. Only seconds later, Bobby heard them rumbling down the stairs, accompanied by Sam’s pleading voice.  
   
“Dean! Please, we should –”  
   
But before he could even finish, the front door slammed shut and Dean Winchester was gone.  
   
***  
   
Dean had planned to get himself so boozed up, flooring the Impala against a solid concrete wall didn’t look all that threatening anymore. In theory, that was. He suspected that even in death, he wouldn’t be able to endure the thought of his beloved car transformed into a heap of worthless junk. But then, the list of things he couldn’t endure in life anymore had inflated to such Godzilla-sized dimensions he still contemplated the matter while driving back to Bobby’s. And _hell_ , he hadn’t even had _that_ much.  
   
He steered the car into the yard, parking her next to the sad remains of a rusty Buick. He got out and allowed himself to lean against the door, a solid and comforting presence he decidedly preferred to Bobby’s reproachful glares and Sam’s helpless attempts to offer something he didn’t have the strength to give right now. One of the dogs barked, but it didn’t stray anywhere near him. Dean braced his arms on the Impala’s roof and looked up at the sky. The heavy dark clouds had moved on and revealed a glorious autumn night, starlit and governed by an almost round-faced moon.   
   
He’d had enough beer and whiskey to feel a little dizzy with his head bent upwards like this, but it was a good feeling. It gave the world a slightly surreal tint, as if nothing actually _was_ the way it looked. So maybe Sam’s wall was still in place, and Castiel had not ripped out his grace. Maybe the angel was not sleeping in Bobby’s guestroom, hurt and crestfallen, but happily sitting on his favorite cloud, wearing a white nightgown and plucking a harp. _Yeah_ , Dean decided, as long he was standing here, his eyes fixed to the skies, no one could actually force him to believe any different.  
   
Still, it didn’t take long until his gaze inadvertently traveled across the yard and up towards the second floor windows. No light. So Cas was still sleeping. Or maybe he wasn’t there at all, had never been there, because nothing of this was real.  
   
 _Damn!_  
   
He brought his fist down on the metal, hard enough to leave a small dent he’d fret about tomorrow. Who was he to give in to delusion? He couldn’t allow himself to break, not with Sammy needing him the way he did.  
   
 _And Cas._  
   
Though he tried to stifle the thought the moment it emerged, it wouldn’t back down. Castiel had messed things up, there was no talking shit ‘bout that, but it wasn’t as if Dean was exactly suited to cast the first stone. The angel had come up with the most fucked-up plan imaginable, _alright_ , and he’d made things even worse by being all sneaky about the whole damn thing until it was too late.  
   
 _But then, he’d definitely learned from the best._  
   
“He was friends with us. You can’t get much dumber than that.”  
   
Bobby’s words echoed in Dean’s mind, leaving him with the old-familiar feeling of being a human-shaped curse befalling everyone who dared to venture into his personal space. If it hadn’t been for him, Cas would still be an angel. Not the faint, hurting shadow that had collapsed on Bobby’s porch the day before.  
   
Dean felt almost sober when he finally locked the car and strode towards the house. He’d hoped that both Sam and Bobby would already be asleep, but when he entered the kitchen through the backdoor, he found Bobby was still sitting at the table, nursing a bottle of beer.  
   
The old hunter greeted him with the lift of a bushy eyebrow, then went back to studying the crisscrossing patterns time had drawn across the well-used kitchen table. Dean got the hint and went over to the fridge, snatching himself another beer.  
   
“You know, it worked,” Bobby said almost casually, leaving Dean slightly confused.  
   
“What?”  
   
“You’re not the only one who’s been worrying ‘bout Sam.”  
   
Bobby looked at him pointedly.  
   
“I did some research and found a spell to keep his dreams at bay. He’s been asleep on a mattress in the living room for almost two hours now.”  
   
Dean, who’d been about to take a swig from the bottle, stopped midway and set the beer down on the sideboard. Sharing motel rooms during the past few weeks hadn’t been a pleasant experience for either of them. Even when asleep, Sam had been thrashing and turning almost constantly. Sometimes he’d woken up screaming, his eyes wide with terror, and Dean wouldn’t even dare asking what had transpired in his brother’s subconscious. At some point, Dean had made a habit out of leaving his bedside lamp switched on during the night, so Sam would not have to wake to the all-consuming darkness of a random motel room. Sam hadn’t even put up protest, which said an awful lot about his wrecked state of mind.  
   
The prospect of his brother being able to enjoy at least some hours of peace each night sent a jolt of happiness through Dean’s body, but he felt too weary to actually hold on to the feeling.  
   
“I guess that leaves the couch for me,” he heard himself say instead.  
   
If Bobby had expected a more enthusiastic response to his achievement, it didn’t show openly. He gave Dean a curt nod and went back to his beer without looking up again.  
   
Dean left, his own bottle forgotten on the sideboard.  
   
***  
   
Bobby hadn’t been exaggerating: Sam was indeed fast asleep on the floor, curled up in a paisley colored blanket. One of his feet was peeping out, and his fingers were still trapped in between the pages of a tattered looking book, as if he’d fallen asleep while reading. His features were soft and relaxed, his chest rising and falling in time with his steady breathing. He looked young, Dean thought, much younger than he had for God knew how long.  
   
He couldn’t stop himself from leaning down over Sam’s face, unable to believe his brother had actually been granted peace in sleep. But however close he looked, there was no awkward twitch, no densely furrowed brow. Dean felt himself washed over with gratitude and love for both his brother and for Bobby. After everything they’d gone through, all the things they’d done to each other, they’d never given up, no matter how desperate a situation might have looked from the outset. They were family, after all.  
   
Family _and_ Cas.  
   
Suddenly, understanding hit Dean like an immensely big, very fast moving truck. They still had their issues to deal with, they always have, but they were together.  
   
Dean, family, and Cas.  
   
“Goodnight, Sammy,” he whispered softly, brushing a rebellious strand of hair from his brother’s face.  
   
“And thank you for bringing me here.”  
   
He actually meant it.  
   
***  
   
“Dean. You told me it’s rude to stare at people while they are sleeping.”  
   
Castiel looked slightly confused to find Dean sitting at his bedside. Which was hardly surprising, considering Dean had outrightly refused to spare him as much as a second glance only a few hours before.  
   
“I’m not staring. I’m watching you.”  
   
It wasn’t exactly a lie. He’d been watching Cas sleep for longer than he, himself, considered healthy. But then, he felt he needed to have a proper look, drag his eyes over every bruise, every wrinkle in his friend’s face, slowly coming to terms with the realization that he was so very much alive. And so very human.  
   
“That’s different.”  
   
Dean wasn’t sure if it was an acknowledgement or a question. Probably a little bit of both.  
   
“Yeah, but don’t get your hopes up, even that is only allowed on special occasions.”  
   
“Like -?”  
   
“When you have to make sure you’re not dreaming,” Dean admitted truthfully.  
   
 _To make sure Castiel was actually sleeping in Bobby Singer’s guestroom._  
   
“I don’t like to dream,” Castiel stated matter-of-factly. “I dreamt yesterday, but it was very unpleasant. Too much like that time when I was … _in there_.”  
   
Someone, maybe Bobby, had drawn back the curtains and the room was cast in a fair amount of light, owing to the bright moonlit night. Castiel had drawn the blanket high up on his chest, using it as a shield against the invisible threat clearly mirrored in his fear-stricken eyes. He was no longer an angel, and the human he’d become was the same haunted, forlorn creature Dean sometimes felt like himself. That’s what Hell did to you, he thought. And they all had been there at some point.  
   
“Yeah … I’d imagine,” he said, almost pointlessly.  
   
Castiel looked at the ceiling, breathing hard, as if something heavy was crashing his chest.  
   
“When I came here, I didn’t come for help.”  
   
Dean had known as much, of course. It still felt like a blow to his inner core, hearing it from his Castiel’s own mouth.  
   
“Bobby Singer is a good man,” Castiel went on, “I know I didn’t deserve it, but he treated me like –”  
   
“Family, Cas.”  
   
Dean couldn’t help it. He had to touch Castiel, ground himself by resting a hand against his shoulder. Taken aback by the unexpected gesture, the other man turned his head and looked at him with puzzlement written all over his face.  
   
“He treated you like family. And that’s nothing you have to deserve. It’s just –”  
   
Dean struggled to find the right words, something that would rightfully capture what family was. Then it occurred to him that Castiel had never been one to reject a simple answer if it was an honest one.  
   
“It’s just there.”  
   
He shrugged his shoulders to emphasize his point.  
   
Castiel stared at him in a way Dean assumed to be contemplative, though it was never quite clear what went on behind the former angel’s furrowed brow.  
   
“Dean,” he eventually croaked out, sounding even hoarser than usual, “are we family?”  
   
“No, Cas. When I said you were family to me-” Dean swallowed hard. “I was lying.”  
   
“Oh.” Despite the emotional illiteracy that characterized most of his interactions with humanity, he looked the perfect image of a man who’d just received a blow below the belt. In a conspicuous move, he lowered his gaze and began an adamant study of the blanket’s frayed corner.  
   
“Hey!” Dean said softly, lightly squeezing Castiel’s shoulder. “I am a jerk sometimes. You probably know that.”  
   
An almost-smile flashed over his face, barely noticeable, but Castiel still somehow managed to pick up on it. Slowly, he directed his attention back to Dean, eyes awfully close to resembling a kicked puppy someone had abandoned on Christmas Eve.  
   
“Sam told me,” he replied in a voice that sounded way to serious.  
   
“Huh?”  
   
So back in the days, his brother and Cas had founded a two-man support group for victims of Dean Winchester’s rare and mostly warranted jerkiness. Dean made a mental note to use the information against Sam as soon as the opportunity presented itself. For now, he’d have to let it rest.  
   
“Well, yeah, anyways,” he quickly rambled on, still not sure where any of this was going, “and because of that, I didn’t know before it was too late. What you are to me, I mean.”  
   
Castiel looked at him curiously, even hopefully maybe. Dean’s heart skipped a beat, then clenched painfully at the realization that he didn’t have anything substantial to offer. Suddenly, he couldn’t really tell anymore why he’d come to see Castiel in the first place. When he’d witnessed Sam’s first night of peace after what felt like ages, knowing it was Bobby who’d pulled the strings, he’d fallen into short-lived euphoria. And for a reason he could not quite fathom, he’d thought Castiel was also a part of it. Now, however, he found he did not have the faintest clue how to describe the position the angel held in his own private Idaho.  
   
Somewhere in between Castiel’s near death experience and subsequent resurrection, Bobby had decided that he was family. If Sam got over the incident with the wall in his head – which would probably happen before Dean did – he’d consider Castiel a friend.  
   
Only Dean – _well_ , he could at least be honest.  
   
“I can’t tell you what you are to me. Because I don’t know myself.”  
   
Even though it seemed physically impossible, Dean could have sworn Castiel was actually doing _that_ head tilt.  
   
“Maybe I can help you … find out.”  
   
He propped himself up on his elbows and for a moment, Dean thought his grace had suddenly returned. Castiel’s eyes were of such an intense blue they looked almost fluorescent, his face strangely clear and shed in contrasts, belying the fact they were sitting in a darkened room.  
   
“Cas?”  
   
It was by no means a conscious decision when suddenly, it became as clear as day to Dean he was going to kiss Castiel. He took a deep, pacifying breath, then leaned forward and cupped the other man’s face in his hand.  
   
“Will it hurt?” Dean asked softly, running his thumb over a painful-looking cut in Castiel’s lower lip.  
   
There could be little doubt the former angel knew what was going to happen, but he didn’t even flinch when Dean’s breath ghosted over his face.  
   
“No, Dean. Nothing you could –” He was probably going to say something that was completely not true, and Dean didn’t want to hear it. So he decided to cut corners and bent forward, holding his breath until he felt the touch of Castiel’s lips underneath his own. It was awkward at first, nothing like kissing a girl, all soft lips and smooth skin. Castiel’s lips were chapped and roughened, and he’d grown considerable stubble that was now chafing across his chin and cheeks. Dean’s first impulse was to pull away, but then he felt fingers brush across his temple, stroking lightly, wondrously, and he remembered that this was Cas. The very same Cas who’d pulled him from hell, who’d remade him, who’d fought, and rebelled; who’d betrayed, and died, and suffered. Cas, who’d lost everything, but still treated him with the same awe he’d once bestowed upon the righteous man Dean had never lived up to be.  
   
Dean felt himself being washed over by sudden reverence. No matter the here and now, Castiel had once been an angel of the Lord, an age-old, ever powerful being. And yet, his lips parted beneath Dean’s as if being kissed was the one shining memento of his whole existence. It was nothing big or overtly passionate, just the two of them learning each other’s personal space, accompanied by the occasional brush of lips and breath ghosting over unfamiliar skin.  
   
“That felt … pleasant,” Castiel remarked when Dean finally pulled away. His eyes were wide in the semi-darkness of the moonlit room, his hair an unruly shade across the pillow.  
   
“Yeah … yeah, it did.” It occurred to him that he should probably have said something entirely different. But then, it was also saying something he was completely lost for words, wasn’t it? Castiel seemed to think so, for he took it as an invitation to plunge forward and pull Dean down on top of him. And then, the last coherent thought on Dean’s mind for several long moments was something awfully close to “God bless the pizza man”.  
   
 _Small wonder he’d actually managed to distract Meg with a kiss._  
   
Castiel, due to lack of experience, certainly did not have the most refined of techniques, but there was no denying he was one hell of a kisser. He kissed Dean with the same fierce, single-minded determination he applied to most other things he did, including staring, smiting, and – oddly enough – sleeping. Clearly, he didn’t have much of an idea what to do with his tongue and teeth, but the uncoordinated, soggy clash of mouths was so unbelievable hot Dean didn’t even consider slowing things down.  
   
The past few weeks hadn’t seen him as much as flirting with a pretty waitress. Even his alone-time in the bathroom had been reduced to the bare necessities, hardly involving more than his hand and an outdated issue of Busty Asian Beauties. His mind, it seemed, had stopped producing the kind of images that would normally bring him off. Yet, he found himself getting hard in no time, despite the fact they were still separated by several layers of clothing and the thick comforter Bobby had draped across Castiel to warm his hypothermic body.  
   
He hadn’t quite decided whether he should do something about it when he felt Castiel squirming underneath the covers, seeking friction. It felt like an unconscious move, as if Castiel’s body still had some memories of its own, but it sealed the deal for Dean. Seeing as he was just as unwilling as he was unable to move away, he freed one of his arms and began pulling on the comforter as hard as he could.  
   
The action finally woke Castiel from his kiss-induced reverie.  
   
“Dean …” He immediately loosened his grip around the other man and looked up at him with huge, questioning eyes. Dean had always thought them to be an angelic feature humanity would ultimately brush away. Obviously, he’d been wrong.  
   
“I … Sorry, Cas, I have no idea what I’m doing.” It scared the shit out of him to find he was actually telling the truth.  
   
Castiel might have been indifferent to sexual orientation when he was an angel. Maybe he still was. That didn’t change a damn thing about the fact Dean himself wasn’t. He wasn’t gay. Well, at least he hadn’t been until his subconscious had led him to believe he wanted to make out with a former God and ex-angel inhabiting the body of someone who happened to be a guy.  
   
“Dean, are you alright?”  
   
Castiel looked up at him with an expression so full of uncertainty and guilt Dean couldn’t bear looking back. He rolled off the other man and laid down on his back on the other side of the bed, barely conscious of the fact he was still wearing his boots.  
   
“This,” he gestured vaguely between Castiel and himself, “creeps me out.”  
   
And then, it occurred to him it had nothing whatsoever to do with Castiel being a man, but everything with the simple fact that everybody Dean Winchester cared about died or went away. The only constant he had in his life was Sammy. Which was why he’d do anything in his power to keep him alive and sane, no matter the cost. Letting anyone else into his life was a risk he’d never been willing to take – until Castiel came along and simply let himself in. And then, naturally, he’d lost him and it had broken him down. If they continued now, if he actually forgave Cas and let himself be forgiven, there was no way in Heaven or Hell he’d ever get himself not to care. And he couldn’t let that happen, not now, not with Sammy in the state he was in and the Leviathans still on the run.   
   
And yet, this was Cas. Cas who had ripped out his grace, the very thing that made him an angel. And as usual, he’d done it – all of it, for Dean.   
   
“I couldn’t stand it when you were gone,” he whispered, staring up at the ceiling half hoping a giant teleprompter would appear there and tell him what to say.  
   
“Damn it, Cas, I thought I’d just rot from the inside or something. If it hadn’t been for Sammy –”  
   
He stopped in mid-sentence, suddenly feeling there was not enough air in his lungs to finish what he’d been about to say.  
   
Castiel stared at him curiously, not quite able to place what was going on.  
   
“Is this what you call a chick-flick moment?” he eventually asked.  
   
It was probably among the most absurd things Castiel had ever said. But then, it was true. Not that Dean was ever going to admit it openly, of course, but what he’d been about to say was dangerously close to the sort of declarations he usually stopped short of making.  
   
“No, this is actually the part where I’m trying to tell you that I don’t want any of this. I don’t want to care about you, and I don’t want to … want you. Needless to say, I still do. I cannot help it. So I’m telling you this, and I’m gonna say it just once: If you get yourself into trouble … _if you get yourself killed_ , I’d sell my soul, just to get you back so I can finish you off again myself. Are we clear?”  
   
When Castiel didn’t respond for several long moments, Dean started wondering whether he’d managed to decipher the code. He was already pondering on how to change the phrasing without having to say the actual thing when Castiel turned his head, his face washed in pale moonlight.     
   
“Perfectly clear, Dean,” he said quietly, an all-too-honest expression on his face.  
   
And then, in an almost terrifyingly human gesture, he reached for Dean’s hand and squeezed it. He still wasn’t capable of too many facial expressions, but Dean had known him long enough to be able to link quite a number of frowns and twitches to a particular mindset. This time, however, he could not really place the look he saw on his friend’s face. In fact, if he hadn’t known any better, he would have thought it was Castiel’s version of a genuine smile.  
   
He felt a lump forming in his throat, big enough to make his vision go blurry. _Definitely chick-flick_ , he thought. Which meant it was time to change the subject. He willed himself to ignore the fact Cas was still holding his hand and shifted until they were lying face to face.  
   
“Let’s make this up as we go along, shall we?”  
   
This time, Dean had the presence of mind to pull the comforter off Castiel before he dragged the other man in for another kiss. After some readjusting that led to several casualties, most notably the lamp on the nightstand and a glass of water, Castiel ended up on top of Dean. He was wearing a t-shirt and a pair of boxers, both of which probably had been left behind by either Sam or Dean what felt like a lifetime ago. Judging from the texture beneath Dean’s roaming hands, Bobby had indeed given him one of Dean’s old Metallica t-shirts with a list of long-outdated tour dates on the back. For a reason he could not quite fathom, the discovery made his lips curl into a slight smile, right against Castiel’s raspy cheek.  
   
Dean managed to get a grip on Castiel before they both ended up a tangled mess of limbs and mouths again. He braced his arms next to each side of Castiel’s head and got one of his hands lightly tangled in his hair, then leaned down and sucked his lover’s lower lip into his mouth. Eyes fixed on Castiel’s expectant face, he bit down lightly, dampening the sensation with a soothing swipe of tongue before planting barely felt kisses to the corners of his mouth.  
   
Castiel’s eyelids fluttered and finally closed, hands reaching around Dean’s back to pull him closer. He whimpered – actually _whimpered_ – when Dean let go for just a second to get a better angle, and it was so fucking hot he couldn’t help loosing himself _in Cas_ for another round of hungry, open mouthed kisses. Their bodies moved against each other, fitting together in a way Dean would never have expected them to do, not least because he’d never even considered to be this close to another man, let alone a former angel.  
   
Yet, he couldn’t really dismiss the fact it was different in ways he wouldn’t have expected either. Underneath the oversized trench coat, Jimmy Novak had been a skinny man, prominent hipbones and pointy knees that jabbed into Dean in the most inopportune of moments. It was only a slight disadvantage the hunter chose to ignore in favor of Castiel’s obvious enthusiasm. If Dean hadn’t known for a fact that angels were dicks, prudes and – on top of it all – insusceptible to the peaks of humanity, he’d have thought Castiel was acting out an eternity of pent up sexual frustration. And who was he to stop him, least of all when he was at the receiving end of it all?  
   
Only when he barely escaped near castration by straying hips, Dean decided they needed to make some minor adjustments.  
   
“ _Whoa_ , hold your horses there, cowboy.”  
   
Castiel tensed, but didn’t back away. His arms wrapped around Dean’s shoulders and held him there, their foreheads pressed together. Suddenly, the hunter became very much aware of his own arousal, straining against his jeans, and he decided he – _they_ – needed to do something about it.  
   
If Cas had been a girl, he could have drawn upon a rather huge inventory of things to deal with the issue in a mutually satisfying way. As it were, Cas was a man, and if Dean had a streak of virginity preserved in him, it lay … well, _there_. He briefly gave it a thought, but found _inserting A into slot B_ was not really in the cards for him, at least not for the time being.  
   
Even though he knew it was impossible, Castiel seemed to have read his mind. Slowly, deliberately, he pressed his hips up and Dean figured _slotting A against A_ would probably get them somewhere close enough.  
   
“Get your legs apart,” he said, surprised at the hoarse sound of his own voice.  
   
A quick nudge to Castiel’s knee, and he was rewarded with the desired results. The former angel planted his feet firmly on the mattress, and Dean easily slipped between his legs. He’d never been this close to another man’s dick, let alone an erect one, but now he found it wasn’t half as scary as he’d imagined it to be. In fact, he suddenly discovered he wanted to get even closer. Obviously, the sentiment was mutual.  
   
“Get your jeans off,” Castiel growled, the tiniest trace of frustration in his voice.  
   
Dean didn’t have to be asked twice. Hurriedly, he got up on his knees and started fumbling with his belt. He’d barely managed to shove the jeans over his hips when Castiel decided he’d waited long enough. With a spark of angelic dominance, he reached out and dragged Dean down on top of him.  
   
Dean wanted to protest, but when their erections touched through the thin fabric of their boxers, he found taking off your trousers – or your boots, for that matter – wasn’t really all that important. It was probably too late, anyways. He’d had ample of time to spread dirt all over the white sheets, not to mention the fact that if things went according to plan, mud wouldn’t be the only substance staining Bobby’s bedclothes.   
   
Whether or not Castiel actually knew what he was doing still remained somewhat of a mystery to Dean, but then, he was already well beyond caring. It had been surprisingly easy to find a rhythm that worked for both of them, and soon enough, he had his face buried against his partner’s neck, moaning into sweat-slicked skin. Castiel’s hands were everywhere, under his shirt and in his hair, mapping the way he’d once rebuilt his body inch by inch. The steady rise and fall of hips had already been replaced by urgent grinding when Castiel’s hand suddenly slipped beneath his sleeve and across the mark on his shoulder.  
   
“Dean,” he groaned, breathless. “This …”  
   
Dean shuddered and stilled, groin pressing painfully into Castiel’s. He lifted his head and looked at the angel, almost sure he saw an otherworldly spark right there, in his huge, knowing eyes.  
   
“My grace,” Castiel whispered, reaching out to touch Dean’s face. “You’re still holding a piece of me. Of the angel I once was.”  
   
Dean held his breath when Castiel’s fingers traced the shape of his eyebrows, traveled over his cheekbones and down across his mouth. He groaned, unable to stop his hips from rolling into the pliant body beneath him. The feeling was overwhelming, like they were actually melting into each other, and Dean’s addled brain thought that he could come like that, without as much as a hand on his dick.  
   
“You’re a part of me, Dean Winchester.”  
   
Castiel’s words were an evocation and a prayer, the answer Dean had so desperately craved and dreaded at the same time. He probably just imagined the handprint on his shoulder throbbing faintly, but found it didn’t really matter. He now realized with unexpected clarity their connection was more than the supernatural bond they’d shared; more than memories of averting the apocalypse, or of defying Hell. It was something he’d denied himself for so long he didn’t even recognize it until it was too late. When Cas was gone, he could tell himself what he felt was raging anger at the betrayal of someone he’d considered an ally. Clean, simple, and easy.  
   
Except that it wasn’t.  
   
He wanted Castiel, wanted him so much his whole world narrowed down to where their bodies moved, entangled on a creaking bed at a remote salvage yard. He pressed his cheek against Castiel’s and buried his hands in a halo of dark locks, hips moving in tight little circles until they were both moaning. At some point, Dean became dimly aware he was going to paint his pants. Which was slightly embarrassing, considering it hadn’t even happened during his ever-horny teenage days, but he was already too far gone to care.  
   
From the noises Castiel was making, completely oblivious to the presence of others who might hear them, Dean could tell he was close as well. Their movements grew frantic, giving up on any rhythm until they were merely jerking against each other. When Cas stiffened underneath him, Dean pressed their mouths together, muffling their cries while they both came apart. It was like falling into a deep, dark well, only that at the bottom, there was no pain, no broken limbs and burning aches, just two arms holding him close against a warm body.  
   
“Cas,” Dean breathed, relinquishing at the sound of it.  
   
“Yes, Dean.” The response was immediate and reassuring. A promise, Dean realized. “I am here.”  
   
***  
   
 _In Bobby Singer’s guestroom, Castiel lies dreaming. He’s still confused, and he has regrets. He hurts, and there will be times when he’ll feel lonely and abandoned by those he once considered family. But just now, his arms are wrapped around another body, warm and solid against his own._  
   
 _And right under his hand, a heart is beating._


End file.
